Barbarian a-1 Page 8

  Pavo backed away from Britomaris in a daze. A groggy fog settled behind his eyelids as the enormity of the task in front of him finally began to set in. Macro had been correct in his tactical assessment, but Pavo knew from his days as a military tribune that there was a world of difference between giving orders and having the blood, sweat and toil to physically carry them out. Britomaris bided his time several paces away from Pavo, a thirsty grin visible under his beard. He was happy to let Pavo retreat, comfortable in the knowledge that he had the upper hand. The crowd implored Pavo to attack the barbarian again. A feeling of outrage welled up inside him as he observed the thousands of faces lining the galleries. They had come here to see blood. To them it didn’t matter whose blood was spilled. Pavo searched the crowd for Macro. He couldn’t see the optio anywhere.

  Where is he? Pavo thought. Then he looked ahead as the barbarian clumped towards him once more.

  Shaking his groggy head clear, Pavo recalled Macro’s instructions and quickly abandoned any thought of attacking Britomaris. He staggered backwards, occasionally glancing over his shoulder to see how much space he had left between himself and the wall. Britomaris chased him down, thrusting his spear to gauge the state of his opponent and see how much fight he had left in him. As Pavo neared the wall he switched his stance and began circling Britomaris, careful to remain two spears’ lengths from the barbarian. He moved nimbly on his feet. His arms were aching from wielding the sword and shield, but his legs were strong and willing. Britomaris roared with anger at this new tactic. The crowd seemed to agree with the barbarian. Shouts of ‘Coward!’ and ‘Shame!’ rained down from the galleries and swelled to a deafening chorus of boos. As Pavo finished his first circuit of the arena he noticed one or two spectators leaving their seats in disgust. But he ignored them. Macro’s strategy was paying off. Pavo wasn’t here to please the mob. He was here to win a fight. Spurred on by the heavy breathing coming from the barbarian and his blundering strides, Pavo backtracked as Britomaris laboured to keep up his relentless pursuit.

  ‘Stand and fight!’ a voice shouted from the lower galleries.

  ‘Get stuck into him!’ another boomed.

  Pavo noticed Pallas and his fellow Greek freedman squirming in their seats, desperate for victory, barely able to watch. The Emperor seemed oblivious both to his freedmen and the intimidating mood among the crowd, as he shouted with childlike excitement at the fighters. Pavo quickly reset his gaze to Britomaris as the barbarian carted towards him. His gait was heavier as he tucked his right elbow tight to his side and drew the tip of his spear level with the cusp of his shield. Then he lunged at Pavo, thrusting his spear at the recruit’s jugular. Pavo hurried backwards as fast as he could, narrowly avoiding the spear but losing his footing and almost slipping to the arena floor.

  Britomaris flew at him, with a sudden urgency to his movements, breathing heavily as he sensed the tide of the battle turning in his favour. Pavo scrambled back in a frantic stoop. Despite his stamina training, the recruit was short of breath and sweating heavily. The stress of facing raw steel was taking its toll. Britomaris kept swiping, Pavo kept scrabbling clear. Several members of the crowd chucked their tickets into the arena in disgust, pelleting Pavo with the numbered clay chips. One spectator lobbed his wine jug at the youth. It shattered a foot away from the gladiators, dyeing the sand deep red. A couple of stadium officials dragged the man responsible kicking and screaming towards the nearest exit. Britomaris slashed at Pavo. The recruit jumped clear and felt a thud against his spine as he backed up against the wall.

  Pavo was cornered.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Towering over Pavo, Britomaris jabbed his spear at Pavo’s upper chest. With his muscles screaming and the blood pounding in his ears, Pavo hefted his shield upwards. There was a nerve-jangling clang as the spear tip clattered into the centre of the shield, iron hammering into bronze. The barbarian howled a Celtic war cry that sent cold shivers down his opponent’s spine. Then he unleashed a torrent of thrusts and slashes at Pavo, forcing him to shelter behind his shield. The force the barbarian summoned for each attack stunned Pavo. He gripped the handle for dear life and muttered a prayer to Fortuna to save him as a second thrust of the spear split through the leathered surface of the shield above the boss, showering splinters of wood at his face. Tugging back on the spear, Britomaris kicked the bottom of Pavo’s shield and wrenched his weapon free. The crowd roared in murderous expectation. Out of the corner of his eye Pavo could see the Emperor rising gawkily to his feet, his mouth agape. Pallas wrung his hands, shooting agitated glances across the Emperor to an older freedman sitting opposite.

  Pavo was conscious of the spear tip plummeting towards his chest. A hot wave of anger flushed through him. His reflex was automatic, rolling his body to the right as the spear stabbed the sand. He looked up, saw Britomaris adjusting his aim and stabbing downwards again and desperately rolled to the left, his heart in his mouth as he felt the whoosh of the spear tip skating past his neck and the dull thwack of iron on the sand.

  In the next instant Pavo arched his back up and to the left, driving his sword towards the barbarian in a whirl of motion. Britomaris was still lifting the spear out of the sand as Pavo’s blade pierced his flesh at a spot just below his elbow. The tip glanced off his lower ribs as Pavo wrenched the sword out. The spectators gasped as the barbarian let out a howl like a wolf being skinned alive before whirling towards Pavo and clattering the recruit on the head with the side of his shield. A shard of white light flashed in front of Pavo’s eyes as he dropped to his knees. Blood oozed out of his nostrils. He staggered away from Britomaris. The barbarian let out another animal roar. He cast aside his shield to staunch the blood pulsing from his own wound with his left hand. It landed with a heavy clunk. Britomaris was bleeding, but not heavily. His loincloth glistened as the crimson stain spread. Peeling away his hand from his side, Britomaris raised his blood-soaked palm to his eyes. The icy blue points of his eyes glowered at Pavo. He flashed his teeth at the young man and breathed heavily out of his nostrils. A tense silence hung over the spectators. Britomaris wiped his hand on his thigh and blind rage took over. Ignoring his discarded shield, holding his spear in a two-handed grip with his right hand wrapped under the throat of the oak shaft in front of his chest and his left hand gripping the spear base tucked close to his side, he charged at Pavo.

  The recruit watched numbly as his opponent stampeded towards him in a lumbering gait, stunned by the way he had shaken off his injury. The horse tails at the back of his helmet flapped wildly. His legs wobbled. Britomaris almost lost his footing and stopped. He looked around in a daze at the crowd, as if noticing them for the first time. Growling as he tried to shake his head clear, the barbarian made a renewed charge towards Pavo. He dominated Pavo’s line of vision, blocking out the arena floor and the cries from the galleries baying for blood as the spear tip rushed at him. Drawing closer to Pavo now, the barbarian raised the spear over his head parallel to his right shoulder and prepared to make a final downward thrust with the iron spike attached to the base of the shaft. But his movements had become sluggish and uncoordinated. Slow enough for Pavo to read. The menacing spike snapped Pavo out of his shock. With a drop of his left shoulder he feinted a half-step to the right and then thrust his sword upwards. A crude look of horror briefly flashed across the face of the barbarian as he realised too late that by attacking overhead he had left his torso fatally exposed. He plunged his spear uselessly into the sand and Pavo struck him in the groin.

  Britomaris froze. Pavo ripped the sword across, the weapon making a tearing sound as if splitting open a sack of grain. The blade diced up the barbarian’s bowels and severed his femoral artery. Blood fountained out of the wound as Pavo withdrew his sword and collapsed on the ground. Ten thousand people rose to their feet around the Julian plaza, watching Britomaris. The barbarian was rooted to the spot and looked down dumbly at the blood spraying his feet. He stood defiantly for a few moments longer and ripped off his helmet, h
is eyes rolling into the backs of his sockets as he gasped for air. His face had turned pale, and he was shivering and foaming at the mouth. He looked feverish. His legs buckled. Then Britomaris collapsed onto the sand with a colossal thud.

  Salty sweat dripped from Pavo’s brow into his eyes, blurring his vision. He tasted blood in his mouth. His heartbeat pulsed violently, the veins on his neck throbbing and echoing inside his head. Pavo could hear the ghoulish whimpers coming from Britomaris as he bled out on the sand, his helmet by his feet, vomit oozing from his slackened mouth.

  There was a moment’s silence. Then the crowd broke into rapturous cheers. Pavo picked himself off the ground. He was so weary it took every last ounce of strength to stand tall. He wiped the sweat from his eyes.

  ‘Pavo! Pavo!’ the crowd chanted, over and over. The same people who had been roundly booing him only a short while earlier, the recruit thought. Up in the podium a Praetorian guard clumsily shuffled his way past the podgy imperial high priests and whispered something into Pallas’s ear. The Greek freedman furrowed his brow, then turned to Murena and muttered something. Abruptly the two men rose from their seats and followed the Praetorian out of the arena as the master of ceremonies handed Claudius a victory palm and box of coins to present to the victor. The Emperor accepted the coins with a cold and distant look in his greying eyes. He looked displeased. He scowled in disgust and looked in the direction of Pavo with stony-faced contempt as the chanting of the victor’s name swelled in the plaza.

  Pavo stared defiantly back at the Emperor. He barely noticed the officials dragging Britomaris away with a meat hook, just as they had dragged away Titus months before. They left a streak of blood stretching like a tongue from the arena entrance to the place where the barbarian had fallen. His limbs were the same pale colour as his face. The feverish look in the barbarian’s eyes, and the way he had foamed at the mouth, troubled Pavo.

  Then the pair of officials who had been stationed at the arena entrance grabbed Pavo and hurried him away from the floor towards the corridor and a flight of stairs leading up to the podium, where the trainee would accept his prize from the Emperor in person. Pavo was still running his eyes over the galleries as the officials hauled him down the corridor, the hoarse cheers of the crowd echoing off the dank walls, the air stifled with hot dust and sweat, the crowd shrinking from view.

  ‘Where the hell did he disappear to?’ Pavo wondered aloud of the optio.

  ‘You mean your friend? The soldier?’ the older official with the rotten teeth snarled. ‘Don’t worry. You’ll get to see him soon enough. In fact, we’re taking you to see him as soon as you’ve collected your prize. .’

  Macro awoke with the din of the crowd buzzing in his ears. The optio shook his groggy head and acquainted himself with his surroundings. He was back in the small room on the western side of the plaza he and Pavo had occupied in the build-up to the fight. But the two Praetorian guards now blocked the doorway, and Macro’s young charge was nowhere to be seen. A dim image came back to the optio through the haze. He recalled stumbling across the surgeon’s counter, and witnessing the Praetorian dipping Britomaris’s spear tip into a bowl of poison.

  The image forced Macro to shoot upright. He rushed towards the door but the Praetorians blocked his path. ‘What in Hades’ name is going on?’ the optio rasped.

  The Praetorians said nothing. Bot their expressions were tight and blank.

  ‘Did he win?’ Macro demanded.

  ‘Pavo? Oh, he won,’ a voice quivered from the corridor behind the guards. Macro’s joy was short-lived as the Praetorians stepped out of the way and four figures appeared from the shadows of the colonnades. Macro watched two stadium officials bundling an exhausted Pavo towards the room. Murena led the way, a stern expression plastered across his gaunt face. Pavo was too tired to try and wrench himself away. The freedman nodded at the guards as the officials slung Pavo into the room. The trainee dropped to his knees beside Macro, his exertion in the arena having drained his muscles and left him weary. In the background, Macro could hear the crowd roaring Pavo’s name. The soldier flicked his eyes to Murena, the Greek lingering in the doorway and smiling pityingly back at the optio.

  ‘You were going to poison Pavo,’ Macro growled.

  ‘Poison?’ Pavo whispered at Macro, a disbelieving look on his face.

  The optio nodded grimly. He was conscious of blood flowing out of a wound at the back of his scalp, from when the second Praetorian had clobbered him earlier, matting his hair and dripping down his neck. ‘I caught these two fools in the act,’ he said, jerking his head furiously at the guards.

  ‘But I just saved the reputation of Rome,’ Pavo hissed as he glowered with rage at Murena. ‘The Emperor’s too. Not to mention your own and that of Pallas! And this is how you repay me?’

  Murena chuckled weakly as he placed his hands behind his back. He kept his distance from Pavo, as if avoiding a rabid dog. ‘Our plan was simple,’ he said. ‘We needed to guarantee Rome victory. Even with someone as skilled with a sword as you, however, nothing in life is guaranteed. We poisoned the tips of both your weapons. That way Britomaris would perish in the arena, thus restoring the glory of Rome.’ Murena chuckled. ‘Why on earth do you think that our barbaric friend collapsed so easily at the end?’

  ‘But you were going to kill me too!’ Pavo roared, his face turning crimson with rage.

  Murena knitted his wispy brow. ‘Two birds, one stone. Both Pallas and I knew that your victory, whilst necessary for his imperial majesty, would also make you a hero in the eyes of the mob. Listen to them,’ he grumbled scathingly as the crowd continued to roar in the background, ecstatic at the outcome of the fight. ‘They think you’re a legend, young man! We took a calculated risk in getting you to fight Britomaris. But we hoped to avoid the celebration of your name by arranging your death in the arena. There would have been some applause from the crowd for your efforts, of course. A few tawdry poems written to celebrate your feat. The odd inscription. But dead gladiators don’t live long in memory. By the following month you would have been forgotten.’ Murena sighed. ‘If only that idiot Britomaris had done his job, and stabbed you.’

  Despite his ragged condition, Pavo mustered his precious last reserves of energy and lunged at Murena. The freedman took a frightened step back out of the doorway, his eyes widened with fear.

  ‘You tried to kill me, you bastard!’ Pavo roared.

  The Praetorians jerked into action. One kicked Pavo in the midriff and sent him flying backwards, landing on the ground with a thud while the other guard glared at Macro, who had balled his hands into tight fists. The guard began to unsheathe his sword. Macro got the message and reluctantly loosened his fists.

  ‘What about my son?’ Pavo seethed. ‘I was told he would be released after I won.’

  ‘Appius?’ Murena asked, wearing an expression of feigned ignorance. ‘You must be mistaken, young man. The Emperor was to release him upon your glorious death in the arena. Since you failed to stick to your side of the bargain and die, I’m afraid the deal is off. Appius will remain the possession of the imperial palace. Of course, he won’t be a freedman. He’ll grow up with the other slave children, and when he’s old enough he’ll fetch grapes and figs for those who control the empire. Men like Pallas and me. In future generations the name of Valerius will be synonymous with slaves, not military heroes and victorious gladiators.’

  Pavo fumed, his nostrils flaring with rage. ‘You can’t do this.’

  ‘Oh, but I can,’ Murena replied condescendingly. He began to turn away from the room. ‘I can do whatever I please. Your victory means that the Emperor is in debt to Pallas, and don’t forget that Pallas is my boss. It would’ve taken years for us to win the complete confidence of Claudius. You’ve helped us achieve it in a mere few months. Thank you, Pavo.’

  Pavo simmered with rage. The freedman paused and rubbed his hands together, as if warming them on a cold winter’s night. ‘I suppose it’s all worked out rather well i
n the end,’ Murena went on. ‘All that remains is for me to take care of loose ends.’ He cast his eyes over Macro and Pavo in turn. ‘As I promised Pallas.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Pavo snapped, narrowing his eyes at Murena.

  ‘The Emperor won’t tolerate the mob chanting the name of the son of a traitor. ‘Murena barked at the Praetorians as he clicked his fingers. ‘Take him away.’ Pavo hung his head low as the guards hauled him to his feet, grabbing a weary arm each. The fight had dimmed in him, Macro noticed. Despair had doused the flames of rage burning inside his belly.

  ‘Appius. . my boy. .’ the trainee muttered under his breath, his dry lips cracking as the guards manhandled him out of the room and dragged him down the corridor. Away from the arena. Away from the noise and buzz of the crowd chanting his name.